


as you bury me

by kkeithkatt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Its not directly stated though. Just a passing thought I had haha, M/M, Magic AU, Necromancer Keith (Voltron), Necromancy, One could argue that...in a sense, Soul Magic, Soulmates, Vampire Shiro (Voltron), Witch AU, Witch Keith (Voltron), passing notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkeithkatt/pseuds/kkeithkatt
Summary: Shiro's been having an existential crisis for years. Decades even. The magic of souls is an area of magic he has painstakingly studied, with no success.But a single note within a library book might bring him the answers he has been so desperately seeking.And maybe... it brings him something even more important.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 112
Collections: Sheith Prompt Party 2020





	as you bury me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 21: Keith and Shiro meet by passing notes through library books

The funny thing about working the same job for lifetimes is that there are very few surprises.

Shiro has worked for the Garrison since he was 16, back when it was normal, and expected to sign your life away before you could vote. He remembers the war well, remembers the pressure to succeed and be something, someone, while they still could.

And for someone like him, who already had a ticking time clock, that time was cut even shorter. He had mere years, if he was lucky, to get everything done compared to his peers who had decades. An unexplainable illness, one even magic couldn’t explain away, would do that to you.

He had signed his life away (what little there was left of it) with very little thought. Most of them had, back then. Anything to study at the Garrison, world renown as it was, was worth the shot. The loss. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t have a family and wouldn’t find a cure. He had needed answers. 

Answers only they could have given him the resources for and so, with a flourish of his wrist, he had spelled his life away with a flick of blood and magic. Sanda’s magically binding contract doubly made sure of that. He remembers the cold press of the pen as he signed the contract, Sanda’s own magic heavy and overbearing in the room as she watched him. They had just lived through the Third World War, blood and heat still fresh on their skins, and he had thought, desperately, foolishly, that he had nothing left to lose.

The knowledge had been worth everything. Even his soul.

And in the end, that’s exactly what they had asked of him. Demanded.

They took his soul, wrapped it in thick blue sheets, antiseptic strong in the air, the prick of an IV sharp through his skin, and breathed life back through him, if one could call the curse of vampirism that.

He remembers very little of that time. His illness had gotten so much worse near the end of his contract. His bones had been heavy and full, joints squeaky and tight. A tiredness had clung to him like a cloak, stiff and unyielding, never falling from his shoulders. Hunger, pain, and exhaustion clung to the hollows of his face, made his frame thin and weak.

Shiro had never thought himself vain until those empty months when all he saw of his reflection was a skeleton grinning back at him, mocking in its undead misery. He never ever wanted to see himself like that again.

And the Garrison had made it explicitly clear he wouldn’t see himself that way again. Not when they brought the pale-faced, white-haired man in. He would never see him again, save that first meeting. All he remembers is that first press of fangs, the allure of dark, dark blood on his tongue. It had been like holding pure ambrosia in his hands. He couldn’t get enough and even now, he hasn’t found anything to compete with it. Not food or books or sex or even soft whispered words of love.

All his studying and research could never have forewarned him of the bloodlust. It had chilled him, replaced every need for sleep, and breathing with the smell of dripping red liquid and the sound of a steady, careful beating pulse. Thin uncovered necks had never looked so enchanting before and suddenly, with no hint of preparation, he didn’t crave books and answers but blood.

The Garrison had been so eager for him to stay, to remain within their clutches, that they had passed him warm blood bags with a pat on the head and another contract Shiro’s addled brain couldn’t even begin to make sense of. He had been so out of it upon waking, the transformation and shock of the afterlife shaking him to the core, that he couldn’t even process what was happening to him.

And so he signed it all away again, right as freedom was brought to him, and here Shiro was still. All the Garrison wanted were answers.

But when your whole planet is healing from another global war, the questions pile up and Shiro’s learned humans can be greedy with their thirst to understand and control. And for a man now like Shiro, who can live lifetimes looking for clues and such, he had all the time in the world to give that to them.

So he sits here now, Magic still bonding his healed but unwilling body to the cold stones, within its library. Shiro has long since retreated to the wooden panels and filled shelves, seeking the quiet he can’t seem to find anywhere else. Human hearts are rather loud, especially when excited, but when they read, they slow and quiet.

Perhaps the Garrison hadn’t quite wanted him to seclude himself within the library but with what little room he had to work with, they could argue it. He was, after all, still researching for them and that’s all the contract required of him. And any threats they could throw at him were next to useless. It is, after all, extremely difficult to maim or kill a vampire, especially when pretty much everyone knew the Garrison had one within its walls.

And so, he was safe here. For now.

The library is everything Shiro could hope for too and he revels in the boring routine of a life that should have been over by now. Even Sanda is gone, after striving for immortality with potions and fancy rituals that left her nothing but insane. Years could not be bartered for without some kind of a loss. He would know.

He has his books though. And that’s more than enough. Because even if every day is the same, at least there are no cursed surprises.

Except for today.

When he first took over the position of head librarian, there had been so much to do. The Garrison is above all else a school, an institution meant for learning and exploring the deepest secrets magic and life have to offer. His days were constantly filled to the brim of looking and ordering obscure books that next to nobody else would want but the minds within these halls.

But as the days stretched on, he gained his footing, and now, most of his time was spent delegating tasks to his assistants and cleaning up the desks. In a nutshell, he was bored.

For decades now he’s studied and read and worked and there’s very little that holds interest for him. Shiro had thought, back when he was young and naive (alive), that he could spend his whole life studying magic. There was, after all, so much to learn about it still. So much to create and understand. And he had spent his whole life, constantly doing that. But the regular human lifespan has long passed for him and by extension so has his curiosity.

The contract didn’t allow him to truly stop though and so Shiro kept reading, picking whatever topic the Holt family was looking into to backpack on. At least they kept him entertained. In between those moments of idle page-flipping though, he found another hobby.

He’s not sure exactly when he started it, as the years have smoothly blended together, but whenever he gets bored (which is often), he’ll find a book, any of the ones he’s read (which is many), and place a note inside of it. Nothing too elaborate, as most of the students either never found them or just threw them out, but enough of something to keep him going.

Shiro has doodles of spells in action, little sticky notes of additional texts to look through, random strips of paper criticizing the author’s perspective. Pretty much anything. It’s not something that takes up much of his time, as he probably only adds one note or so every week, but it brings a bit of a smile to his face, amusement thrumming through his veins.

Still, he knows most people throw them away, discarding them in their haste to find whatever it is they are hungry for. Some leave them in, using them as bookmarks or just ignoring the little pressed paper. Some don’t even find it, not bothering to turn enough pages to receive it. But never before has anyone _responded_ to Shiro’s silly notes.

That is, of course, until today.

Shiro has obviously never actually expected anyone to respond to him. The notes aren’t an exchange, he just leaves them because he can. Still, in an effort to keep up with them, each paper is charmed with what little magic Shiro still possesses. 

The vampirism had stripped his body of many things, rebuilding it, and had replaced whatever it was inside of him that gave people like him the gift. So while he’s very much not a witch anymore, there’s still some charms he can force through. One, like the ones on his notes, are simple tracking charms.

Mostly he presses that magic into his favorite pen, the same pen he uses to write the words on his book notes so that he can find them later. Either to replace or move

He doesn’t check them mostly, content to ignore them. Shiro had felt the magic in a book on souls disappear, the usual sign that it’s been thrown into a bin, and had gone to put a new one in hours later when he caught sight of the pale pink sticky note.

Right on his page. 225. In smooth, careful cursive.

_The soul is not a heart. It is not traded._

Shiro doesn’t remember what his own note had said, doesn’t know if the person on the other end of this note is responding to him or the book. He remembers enough to know that’s exactly what the author had been hailing. Knows it’s something he himself had agreed with.

Shiro had read this book early on in his years as a vampire, back when he thought he had no soul to speak of anymore. Vampire clans keep mostly to themselves, their secrets locked away and stories to be kept close. Very little was known about being turned, both the science and magic behind it. 

But it was widely believed among witches that magic was brought from the soul, something intrinsic, and without magic, eaten away by vampire blood and saliva, Shiro had thought his to be gone. Even now, after many more years of research, Shiro still wasn’t very sure if he had one.

He felt very different after all. Decidedly not human. Soulless, they had supplied.

Except this person seemed to disagree.

It was clear to Shiro whoever the writer was, was a witch. The Garrison housed many gifted beings and humans alike, having recruited the brightest and most talented for their cause. Sometimes it was simple humans with extraordinary minds, sometimes it was a werewolf with a very stubborn relationship with the moon, sometimes it was an elf with playful tricks and a wicked sense of intuition.

Sometimes it was a witch, their magic specialized or so generalized they were a marvel, and the thrum of hot magic pressing pack against his skin let him know that whoever this witch was, they were very, very powerful.

And decidedly different.

Despite every bit of sense warning him not to, Shiro couldn’t help but have his curiosity piqued. And hasn’t it just been so long since he felt that feeling?

And then he feels that familiar flutter of magic, a light pull on his own magic making him turn. The curiosity rises and Shiro raises a brow.

Another note has been moved and this time, now that he’s looking for it, there’s a steady press against him. The humming of another’s gift flirting with his own, pulling at him like an eager little child.

The witch has left another note.

He crosses the library, waving a hand to dim the lights and snuff out the few candles as he does. It’s closing time and he doesn’t need to tell the few stragglers left to pack up. Everyone knows the drill here and his assistant, Katie, will take care of any checkouts.

The heady magic brings him to a book surprisingly unmagical. Unlike the book of souls, this one holds words of fiction and story. A different kind of knowledge that the Garrison sparsely grants him to stock.

Very few people bother to even look over in this section, much less actually read anything from it, and Shiro is genuinely surprised he didn’t notice the witch coming over here. To slip past him was a feat not many could boast.

The magic envelopes a book that would make Shiro blush, if he had any blood to do so. Nicholas Sparks’s name is printed cleanly on the spine, a guilty pleasure he can’t help but invest in sometimes, and it’s with complete denial that he cracks the spine open to a bright yellow sticky note sticking out of the pages.

_This is what you read for fun?_ The cursive mocks and Shiro can almost hear the unknown voice dripping with scorn and playful distaste. _Really?_

Before he can even think to be offended though another tug of magic lights up, like a chain reaction as the last syllable flows through his mind, and tugs him towards another fiction book.

This one isn’t as old as the Sparks book, but ideally not much better. If at all. Stephanie Meyer isn’t someone Shiro ever held high up on his lists of favorite authors and he’ll be the first to scowl and curse her books, but it never stops him from reading them anyway.

The sticky note is slapped on the cover of this one, blocking the bright red apple, and is a garnish orange. In all caps, black cursive scowls up at him.

_Seriously?_

The witch is following Shiro’s thin band of magic, purposely looking for his notes, and the game of chase, as one-sided as it currently stands, makes Shiro’s spine straighten with an eager sense of excitement.

_Seriously?_

Fighting a smile, Shiro follows the next pull to the 34th page, where another orange paper sticks.

_I’m not finishing this,_ It declares and he snorts, thankful the library is now closed and no one can hear such an undignified sound escape him. _Go read an actual book._

And underneath is a book Shiro hasn’t read yet but the title alone reveals it to be another fiction book, likely void of any mention of magic and the supernatural world they’ve succumbed to.

_Game on,_ he thinks, thumbing the corner of orange paper.

* * *

The notes keep coming, mixed in with fiction and nonfiction books alike. The unknown witch doesn’t seem to hold a preference over either and despite his vast collection of knowledge, Shiro can’t quite put his thumb on whatever it is the witch is looking for. Studying. Everyone here has their own brand of research after all and something brought the witch into his library.

He can’t tell what that is but he suspects that Shiro’s notes alone are enough to keep his, dare he say, friend, coming back.

The notes keep popping up, in varying colors of paper and ink. The handwriting remains the same, as does the thrum of magic, so Shiro knows that whoever this witch is, they’re just as enamored with him as he is with them.

It’s a bit surprising if he’s honest. The Garrison houses intellectuals, prodigies, and gifted alike, and rarely do those individuals look away from their projects. That’s not to say none of them have friends or other attachments, because they do, but it’s rare to find this spark of curiosity in this vein of all places.

It’s been a long time since anyone has wanted to study Shiro himself after all and he’s beginning to think that whatever this is, is more than just a passing fancy or side project.

It’s happened before of course. With eager and open minds it’s bound to happen that a student, or even an instructor, will come knocking on his provincial door. They want to know everything he knows, and want to study a vampire up close. Want to flirt and ask invasive questions like how much blood he drinks every day or if he is capable of love with an unbeating heart.

But this witch hasn’t gone down that direction at all. In fact, it almost feels like it’s the opposite. Like Shiro is studying them.

Continuing the first note on souls, Shiro keeps finding more pertaining to the more elusive brands of magic. Soul magic and its darker friends are a heavily guarded subject, both because of how dangerous it is and how very few people can actually practice it.

In all his years of life, Shiro’s met only two that could harness the gift. 

The first had been a necromancer, albeit a very low powered one. She had been the only one Shiro had even heard of in the flesh and her presence here at the Garrison still stumped him. But Shiro never met the girl alive and had only seen her cold, lifeless body fleetingly. Why the Garrison had her, where she came from, and what happened to her, would remain a mystery to him.

Then there was Allura, a brilliant instructor here at the institute that had the ability to heal a soul and many went to the woman for counsel. While she couldn’t fully embrace her gift to make a soul, something Shiro had privately asked her and been met with a pitiful frown on, she did reveal that she could see them.

It was through her he learned souls were both significantly larger and somehow smaller than he ever thought. It varied by the person, she had explained, and could either envelope the whole of that person’s body or be safely tucked away in say the crook of their elbow. A soul could grow or move and was always some shade of color. Allura wasn’t sure exactly what each color stood for but it wasn’t them she truly cared for.

It was the cracks.

A soul could be just as damaged as any other limb, Allura had said. It could fester and burn and ache in ways many people would never notice. If they did, they often explained it away as a passing illness or a bout of depression. But the truth was that it went much deeper.

Many things could crack a soul, he’s learned. Sometimes, it required one to do magic that went against them. For example, Shiro believes if Allura ever tried to read the dead, her soul would crack. She was the opposite of a necromancer after all and the dead, as far as she was concerned, was none of her business at all.

Because the dead didn’t have souls she could see. And Shiro knew this because he had asked her what his own had looked like.

_“You don’t have a soul, Shiro. It is no color at all for it isn’t there. I’m sorry.”_

It had hurt, he’ll admit. While Shiro had long suspected there was something … off about him, he had never expected it to be that he was lacking such a vital part of his humanity. His existence. Shiro certainly didn’t _feel_ soulless and yet Allura’s voice had been firm. She saw nothing and they both knew what that meant.

This, of course, led Shiro to his current theory: that the vampire curse had eaten it away. For if he was an undead thing, surely he didn’t require a soul anymore. Isn’t that what happened when you died? Your soul left? And Shiro had definitely died.

Wherever his soul had rested, the vampirism must have filled the space and taken over. There was no other explanation, or so he had thought.

_The soul is not a heart. It is not traded._

Those first set of words written by his witch had ruined everything and, of course, they didn’t stop there. Shiro found more notes in books on soul magic, on vampires. Shiro started to think that maybe, this person had been studying him for a lot longer than he knew.

Perhaps this was what brought the witch into his library after all?

_Even the dead have a soul. Few can see it._

Inside a book on the theory of vampires and how they came to exist, Shiro found not one, but several notes.

_Light magic isn’t meant to view what rests inside of you, Shirogane. It’s too pure of a gift to grasp._

On plain white paper, careful cursive spelled it out for him.

_Vampires are a result of failed necromancy._

It made sense after the initial panic had settled in. Shiro himself didn’t want to admit it, as necromancers had always been a bit terrifying to him. The witches that spoke to the dead were odd, quiet things and he knew that if anyone could kill him easily, it would be them. They were a threat, a real one, and Shiro made it a point to stay very firmly away from where he might meet any.

But to hear this witch claim that Shiro’s … condition was a result of a failed experiment that was groundbreaking, Not only was vampire study rare, but necromancy was even rarer, and this witch just happened to know something that ran in both of those veins.

Some necromancers, it is said, could raise the dead. Beings brought back to life with their limbs mobile and personalities animated again. But without fail, every undead would have some kind of fault to them. It didn’t matter that necromancers were gifted this ability. Death didn’t like to return _anything_. Some of them would be missing an eye, others would be crazed with a desire to destroy things. The myths of zombies originated from these failed resurrections and now, Shiro knows, vampires did too.

Because what was a vampire if not another undead thing with a fault? The dependency on blood and the lack of a true, beating heart was enough to mark their species as less than perfect. Before he would’ve added a lack of a soul to that list too but the witch stayed firm in its existence.

_Not lost,_ they had written _. Cracked._

Cracked. Again, Allura’s observation rang loud. But if she could see the cracks in everyone else’s soul, why not Shiro’s apparent ones?

The witch, of course, had already answered that. Allura’s soul magic was too pure to view his. Shiro’s soul was tainted with necromancy, something Allura was firmly against. It wasn’t that she overlooked it or didn’t want to see his soul, she just simply could not. Shiro had gathered all the witch’s notes and came to an unspoken hint.

He would need a necromancer if he wished to know more.

It was a good thing then, that he had already found one. Or rather, they had found him.

Shiro is no fool. He has been around for decades upon decades and was certain that the only way this witch could possibly know any of the stuff they were arguing for was because they themselves could see it. They could see Shiro’s soul, could see the cracks, and would know what to do for him.

The unknown witch was a necromancer.

Therein lies the problem though. Shiro had no qualms of asking for help, even from a necromancer. Afraid of them he may be, he was still, like everyone else here, a scholar at heart. The need for answers plagued him, greatly so, and he wouldn’t let something as minuscule as fear prevent him from getting them.

But he would let that fear make him cautious.

Deals with necromancers almost always backfired on the less gifted. Those that bathed in death’s magic were cunning folks, warped in a way that ordinary people failed to understand. To court death, to try to reason with him, was never a good thing and as such, to do so with his gifted witches was even less so. Shiro would have to be careful, less he draws their ire and they kill him.

Death and murder, after all, meant far less to them than it did most people.

He would be patient though. The best course of action would be to simply get to know the witch. They seemed willing enough if all the notes were anything to go by. They didn’t stick to just the soul books after all but often ventured to tease Shiro on his choice of passing reading material. Countless fiction books had sarcastic replies in them. He knew the witch was more than just their gift and it would be prudent of him to forget that.

Yes, best to wait on a deal for now. He had a necromancer to court first.

* * *

_Do you actually read anything of substance?_

The note Shiro finds on a pale Friday morning, stuck between the worn pages in a book on animal transformations. Not quite werewolves, but close enough. He thumbs it, unsticking it and carrying it with him to his office as he takes a languid sip of his coffee. Caramel coats his tongue in a thin layer, making him crave fall afternoons and fresh apples.

“Hey Shiro,” Katie ( _Pidge_ , he reminds himself) greets, eyes tired as she wipes down her counter for the day. Dark circles line under her hazel eyes and her smile doesn’t reach them. Shiro knows better than most that she’s spent the night, once again, looking at her laptop for too many hours.

“Pidge.” He nods his head, setting down a pale brown coffee cup by her notebook. He had woken up this morning somehow knowing she would need it and Shiro never ignored those presses of premonition. “Still looking into arithmancy?”

She grunts in the leeway of an answer, as they both already know she is. For the past month, the Holts have been obsessed with the magic of numbers, believing they could somehow incorporate it into their coding to better combine magic and technology. It’s a complicated task, one that admittedly goes mostly over his head in understanding. In all his years of study, the subject has never truly sparked his interest and as a result, his brain just refuses to understand it.

Fortunately, all he has to do for his portion of the project is to find them appropriate books and that is something Shiro is quite good at.

Seeing that his assistant is clearly not in the mood for conversation, he continues into his office, thumb still toying with the slightly curled corner of his recent note back. His little witch has been feeling rather chatty lately, straying from their usual comments on soul theory, and in turn, poking fun at Shiro himself. It’s a change of pace he relishes in and fears.

It’s been a long time since Shiro has made himself a new friend. The Holts have tentatively wormed their way past his walls and stubborn refusal for dinners and he’ll be the first to admit that, out of anyone, they know him best. Sam had taken him under his wing as soon as they met, despite the fact that Shiro has been here far longer than the greying man himself. Matt, upon meeting him, had followed his father’s advances and in turn, so had Pidge.

It’s . . . nice, he thinks, to have something like a family with them. They know so little about his past, of course, as Shiro knows not to give it away so easily. Even to them. Adam had been the last and he hasn’t quite gotten over the betrayal yet. Shiro cannot and will not see a repeat.

Still, they make his days easier. With them, he can let some of his burden relax. Can allow himself moments where he laughs and smiles and teases, especially with Matt and Pidge. They’re younger, more brazen than their father, and less likely to care about upsetting him.

It’s hard though, at the same time. Shiro knows that with them, like everyone else, he will outlive them, will watch them die as he remains physically unchanged.

It’s difficult to allow people in when he knows he’s going to lose them all and so, he doesn’t usually bother. Allura is easier at least, as her gift on soul magic will no doubt lengthen her lifespan a little more than the regular humans and witches.

This new witch though, Shiro can tell is different.

There’s something about their magic, about the way it seems to wrap around Shiro’s own, coaxing and heavenly, that entices him to them. He knows the necromancer is young, much younger than him, but it stands to reason that they’ll likely live even longer than Allura.

Allura deals with the life of souls and in turn, life wishes to cling to her and make her linger. But this witch deals with the deaths of them and while their death will no doubt be extraordinary, necromancers always live long lives, barring horrible accidents. Death favors them above all others after all.

This witch holds all the answers Shiro keeps guarded within his heart, all the answers he dares not to even look for. It’s the one bit of information he has longed to study, to find, and the very one he refuses to look at. If the Garrison ever found out what he was searching for . . . was trying to discover . . . .

They would be furious.

The necromancer is so very tempting though. They hold an answer Shiro greatly desires to know and it’s hard to turn away from them when he feels this close to a breakthrough.

And the traitorous part of his mind knows that it’s not just their magic he likes.

Shiro shoves those thoughts aside though, setting his things down onto his desk and leaning heavily into the back of his chair. His familiar, Atlas, greets him as she croons, a song escaping her beak, white wings stretching out. Below, Black gives a similar hello, rubbing her body against the side of his leg and hiding beneath his desk.

He found them by chance many years ago. Or rather like the little necromancer, they had found him.

He’s not quite sure where Black came from, even now. One day his library had strictly been free of any animals of any kind and the next a black cat had simply been lounging in his office as if she had always been there. Her smooth body had stretched across the cool wooden panes of his desk, over order forms and requests, lounging like a lord in their throne.

Shiro hadn’t had the heart to turn her away and so she remained, a firm presence in the library that everyone happily accepted.

Atlas had been different.

The little corella had been Sam’s when Shiro met her. Or rather, she had stuck by the man’s side religiously like a toddler still learning the ways of the world. Her body had been so tiny and frail then, almost sickly. And when Shiro had first laid eyes upon her he had known.

Familiars in their world were rare, precious things. Mostly, they acted as companions and guides for witches, though it wasn’t impossible for humans and other creatures to gain one. They were the closest friend a being could ever have, a truly trusted soul that would never betray or leave you, loyal until the end. Familiars’ lifelines were linked directly to their chosen and Shiro knew that for as long as he lived, Atlas would be with him always.

She was special to him, knew his wants and needs more than anyone else ever could, and so, it was a shock to see her perched so primly with a note clutched in her talons.

A letter whose envelope bore strikingly familiar handwriting.

How had the witch gotten in here? Shiro’s office was sealed to only allow him in, save those he gave verbal permission to, and so it should be impossible for the necromancer to have bypassed his protections and come in here uninvited. Unless Shiro invited them in somehow? But that thought seemed entirely unlikely.

Which means they had gotten to his familiar through another way. It was rare for Atlas to leave his office. Shiro was in it so often after all and she hated leaving his side. The few times she did was to go play and find snacks. Even then she tended to stay around the library. Surely Shiro would have noticed someone messing with the bird right in front of him?

Unless that is, Atlas had gone to the witch themselves. Outside of the library and away from Shiro’s watchful eyes.

If that was the case, then Shiro definitely had more on his plate then before.

Atlas cheerily crooned again as if she knew his thoughts were on her and she lifted her leg in greeting, holding the dark envelope out for him like a mere carrier pigeon. She’s never carried mail before and frankly, it’s a bit disconcerting to see her willingly do so now.

His hand shakes as he takes the letter from her, absentmindedly carding his fingers over her feathers in thanks. She butts her head against his palm, nipping the tips of his fingers affectionately.

A simple sticker keeps the envelope closed, no hint of magic on the paper, and Shiro breaks the seal as he, once again, leans back into his chair. A single sheet of paper, very neatly folded, slips out of the envelope and onto his desk innocently.

Could this be a trap somehow? Shiro doesn’t know the necromancer very well. It’s possible they could be an enemy of his, though he doesn’t know why or how they could be. His panic and nerves are definitely pushing him into absurdity, as Matt would say, and so he ignores the bundle inside of him and unfolds the letter.

Surprisingly, very little is written down, the cursive blinking owlishly up at him like a simple wave of hello.

_Your familiar scared the shit out of me last night._ It practically accuses, like the little necromancer possibly blames Shiro for this odd situation. _Wouldn’t leave until I wrote you a note. Guess were doing this now too, huh?_

And then, under the words is a scratchy drawing of Shiro himself, wearing a witches hat straight out of a cartoon, inked messily with a black gel pen.

* * *

The witch had beaten Shiro at his own game.

Of course, when Shiro first started leaving notes within his library books, he had never thought it would be a game one could win. But, like most things recently, the witch liked to prove him wrong.

Every single note within his library had been replied to, most with a single sentence, some with just a doodle of Shiro’s face. It seemed to have happened overnight, even though Shiro himself knows that’s not the case. He has been watching the progression of replies for over a week now, and has watched as his little witch followed the trace of Shiro’s little, dark magic. The necromancer has followed his trail, unwittingly laid as it is, and rewrote over his steps anew. Sometimes, even Atlas would mingle her way in, dropping off an origami animal like she did that every Thursday.

And nothing, absolutely nothing, had delighted him more.

It’s odd, Shiro knows, to feel this peak of delight. It’s warm and flirty, like the fire within his embers, and he aches to touch it, to stroke it with his fingertips and sing to it in hollow tones, words no one else remembers.

The witch’s magic seems to know, somehow, reaching back with a curious hand, a cold trickle of interest at the vampire's state.

Even with this curiosity though (or maybe it’s because of it), Shiro does not like to lose. Especially at games of his own making.

So when he goes to the library next, it’s with a crooked grin he doesn’t have to hide from anybody. It’s a Monday, the only day Shiro closes the library to the students. Unlike Sunday, who many still claim a holy day, Shiro’s always found a certain pleasure in taking every Monday off. He is no religious man, for no god he knows of should ever have made him suffer this curse of life, but he’ll take the excuse when given.

The lack of students and assistants means he can do whatever he wants around the shelves, for no one is there to witness it. The curtains have been pulled, the blinds clasped tight, not a single light peeking through from the sun. There are candles for him to light in a moment however and he sighs now, thinking of the smarting his fingertip will receive from the cigarette lighter.

He locks the main door behind him, the echo of its closure loud and empty within the library. By his feet, Black flinches.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, the words more genuine than most of his are these days and she rubs her fur along his pant clad leg in acceptance. Within the shelves, he hears Atlas’s welcoming chirps.

He follows that noise, ignoring the pressing need to do his duties, to work on what he actually came here for. Atlas leads him to a tall shelf on the west wing of the library and without needing any prompt, he runs his fingers over the fine edges of the wooden shelves. Skims his fingertips along the ends of the books.

One reaches back.

He grabs a hold of the book, running his fingers down the spine. This one is on plants, something Shiro’s never particularly cared much for. He isn’t like Colleen and he holds no hope of a cure or solution to be found within.

But the book is exactly like one the necromancer would expect him to read, as plants do hold a valuable life force. Quintessence, Honerva and Allura have called it.

Shiro wonders what the witch would claim.

Even still, Shiro knows his answer doesn’t lie with that branch of magic now either but at one point in time he had thought so, had longed for it. It’s what really brought him to Allura after all, as shameful as it is to admit, even to himself.

Maybe that’s why he wants to actually befriend the necromancer this time. He doesn’t want to ruin another foundation with manipulation and selfish want. Allura has deserved infinitely better than him, that’s for sure.

He also thinks that unlike the gentle, forgiving witch Allura was, his necromancer would be far from understanding or caring. Death wasn’t like life. You would not betray it and carry on.

Shiro shakes those thoughts off before he can get lost in the guilt. Time spent on them will do nothing more than he’s wasted already.

He stretches his plain paper out over a random page of the book, not caring in the slightest what’s on it. He remembers very little of this book, which definitely speaks for his appreciation of the magic of plants he’s sure.

Pressing his magic into his faithful pen, Shiro writes as clearly as he can.

_Follow my rabbit hole, little witch._

Perhaps it’s unwise to taunt a being capable of destroying whatever may be left of Shiro’s soul but honestly? He can’t help it. It’s the most fun he’s had in ages.

With the residue of his magic pouring into the paper, seeping through thanks to the ink, he closes the book softly and places it back in its place before walking around the library.

This is the part he has to really think about. What part of himself should he show next? Truly show? They already know about his embarrassing fondness for romance novels, so that’s out of the running. Not that he wants to subject himself to even more ribs against his reading habits thank you very much.

Shiro’s got enough pride left within him to simmer slightly at the thought. The nerve of the necromancer, honestly.

But what then? It’s obvious Shiro is a scholar, almost everyone here is in some way. And the witch already knows a great deal about his opinions on magic and the like, so he should probably stay clear of the nonfiction section and textbooks.

...which leaves the, admittedly much smaller, fiction section.

The problem of course is the witch knows where his preferences lie here. He knows what Shiro likes to spend his free time devouring, knows which of his love stories are Shiro’s favorite. The witch can feel the heavy repeated press of his magic as clear as day, for he might as well have stamped his own given name onto the cover with how often he picks them up.

Except...what if he went another way?

And with a new grin on his face, Shiro writes another note, this one with a new pen, free of magic, free of a chase.

Let the witch ponder this.

Above him, Atlas begins to sing.

* * *

Keith has been at the Garrison for three months.

Three months since his . . . accident. Three months of mundane papers and flimsy spellwork he doesn’t care for. He knows that even here, where people like him should be plenty and collected, he is an outsider. Perhaps he always will be.

Well. He’s at least part of the Garrison’s collection if nothing else.

The Garrison Institute is the last place he really wants to be but Keith remembers the feeling of too hot magic on his wrists, the burning of a fire on his back, and knows he never really had a choice. He was going to end up here whether he wanted to or not, at least this way he can have the idea of freedom in theory.

The alternative is unacceptable, even for him.

Still, it’s hard to relax into an environment he detests. He isn’t like the other magicks, he has no thirst for knowledge, no quest to pursue. Oh, he’s smart, far smarter than the Garrison knows or will admit, but there’s still no drive to do anything with it. Keith has no care for the secrets of their world. All he’s ever wondered about is what’s beyond the veil and his gift has provided him all the answers he could want in that regard.

With no quota to meet though, no expectations from the higher-ups, Keith is . . . bored. He’s not sure if he’d prefer an assignment. Likely not, as there’s very little the Garrison could ask of him that he’d be willing to even consider doing.

Everyone knows what kind of task he could provide for them and Keith would rather not raise his body count any more than it is, thanks.

His magic hungers under his skin though, raw and angry, like an irritated cat. Red mirrors it, constantly bristled and baring her tiny fangs to all but him. She is an extension of himself, of his abilities, the first he ever bent to his will. Of course, she would showcase his displeasure, his unrest.

The Garrison is no place for a necromancer though, no matter how much everyone likes to pretend otherwise. They can pass smiles and lie to him as much as they want, but Keith will always know better. This plane isn’t meant for him, especially not this specific part of it, barred and tangled with life and destruction as it is.

The souls inside hunger, cracked and gaping like the caverns of his family’s desert, and his fingers twitch to twist and pull at the seams. To _take_.

_Not yet_ , he has to remind himself. Fists clenching and jaw squaring every time Iverson or Mongomery try to sweet talk or order him into something. Soon, he will have them, have all who have wronged him here, but now isn’t the moment for selfish mistakes. He can’t afford them to be seen.

It’s stifling, unbearable even, to hold his magic in such a firm hand. It takes everything in him to not snap, to focus on something else. Something safe.

And then he finds the library notes.

Keith’s been secluding himself in the library for almost a month now. He has no need to research, as the Garrison has asked nothing of him but his temporary compliance, but it’s still nice to read into what people have theorized about his magic. The art of souls, of the dead, is a highly unknown branch of science, of magic, and to be privy of its secrets provides entertainment he hadn’t expected here.

It’s within those dusty, near-forgotten books of soul theory that he finds the first note.

Blocky, crispy thin letters spell out for him in the margins.

_Vampirism is a soul disease. Eats it away?_

Despite all the other theories and wonderings, he’s come across, it’s this one that has him scoffing loudly, drawing annoyed looks from too scrawny cadets. He can’t help it though, honestly.

He feels the press of magic within the ink, can almost taste the staleness of it. With a jerk, he rips a sticky note out of his bag and presses his own into it.

_The soul is not a heart. It is not traded._

Keith saw his first soul when he was seven. It was his father’s, a dark jaded blue that seemed to match the night sky above their heads. He remembers the feeling of it, even now after so many years. Like a heavy hand or blanket across his back, soothing and firm. Cinnamon coats his taste buds every time he thinks about it, the burning of a cool fire on his cheeks.

The same moment he saw his pa’s soul, Keith watched it flicker away, dimming in every sense, as his father’s life faded away, the fire taking everything with it that it could, hungry and full of a vengeance Keith hadn’t understood.

Death would follow him everywhere after that and still, he had not understood.

Souls came in many senses to him. None were the same. Sometimes, he could taste them, could linger in their aroma as it filled his lungs and nose. Other times, he saw them, the colors stark and varied and so different. No soul ever seemed to match in shades. Many he could feel, like a press to the back of his hand or an itch on his knee. Rarely would he feel more than one sense being engaged but always would there be something to follow, to track and study.

He would watch as souls blended and touched like flickering candle lights as people passed in the streets, hands linked or voices breathy. Watch as they passed through colors, a dark green in one moment and more muted in the next as an emotion passed over them. Would feel the sharp shove of his foster’s parents as their voice yelled across the house.

And Keith would look on as the elderly’s souls seemed to wane, hesitant with life, and he would stare at soft babies, their souls dull but strong. Keith wouldn’t be surprised when one fell sick, when one died, and he would never ponder over this.

At least, he wouldn’t until he had Red.

Keith met his familiar on the creaky steps of an old apartment. He hadn’t lived there long, mere weeks with the younger, fresh-faced yellow souled woman. A nice place, a nice stay.

She would let him wander around as he wished whenever she came home from work, never raising her voice at him. It was one of the few homes Keith had truly felt like the child his pa had left behind. And it was during one of these wanderings that Keith had tucked his knees in on the old, narrow staircase.

Red had been sitting on the second to last step, ribs showing and her auburn fur thin and patchy. A stray, the neighbors crooned. She was small, far smaller than any cat her age ought to be, and far too skinny.

Animal souls were trickier than his fellow humans. They didn’t feel the same, as detailed or heavy. To him, Red’s soul tasted like a spring of mint. Just a hint of it, barely there and easily missed. A passing thought, if he wasn’t paying attention.

But he had been. Death had taught him to be.

He remembers sitting on those dusty steps, watching her and stilling as her chest slowed and the taste faded from his mouth. Red’s death had been slow but peaceful. There was no edge of pain to her, no hint of it on his tongue, and she slipped into Death with a quiet exhale.

It was as her quintessence crossed, soul hollowing, that he felt the hook of magic, the call to join with her. And Keith, curious and sure, had pulled back.

It was like grasping hands pulling one down a hall, only it wasn’t a child’s hand he had grasped but Red’s lifeforce and it was with his own exhale, loud in the empty hall, that he brought her soul back to her.

Keith knew then what he was. The word unknown and foreign to him before came to him like a dream.

Necromancer, her soul sang. Death declared.

She was different when she came back. Keith remembered the curious kitty she was and that streak didn’t change in her, but as their magics joined, twining together as all familiars and beings did, her body filled and stabilized.

Her shadow disappeared, the one flaw of resurrection.

For even with a familiar, resurrection came at a cost. It didn’t matter that he was a necromancer meant to deal with this kind of magic. All returned souls came back with something missing, be it their sanity or an arm or their shadow. Something, always, always, was taken in exchange.

Keith counts it as a blessing and a sign that his first act as a necromancer had such a small cost. He would learn later that it was a sign, a sign of how strong his gift would grow to be.

It was this first act though that Keith learned souls were not an actual exchange, as much as they looked like one.

It was hard to quite explain the nature of them, of their whims and costs. It was just something he knew like a babe just knew how to breathe. He couldn’t explain it but with the library witch’s passing note, he suddenly wished he could.

Vampires, in their own way, were a form of resurrection. The greatest and most known botched attempt at necromancy. While it was true that vampires did lose something in the exchange, that something wasn’t their soul.

A soul was the sole contender of never being it actually.

The only time a person could lose their soul, every bit of it, was through death and vampires, while definitely undead, had not entered Death’s full embrace yet. The farthest they could even go, while still being able to be pulled back to the living, was limbo.

So no. Vampirism did not take a being’s soul, as this inept fearful little creature liked to believe.

And Keith knew exactly who this curious idiot was, as there was only one vampire that would even be in the library.

Takashi Shirogane. Head librarian and bitter recluses extraordinaire. 

Keith will be the first to admit that, even before he found the notes, he’s been watching the man. It’s not every day that one gets to meet a prime example of their work after all. Most necromantic experiments and such were taken away or used and swiftly destroyed. Red had stayed with him always of course, loyal familiar that she was, but vampires were a completely different subject altogether.

They weren’t just an example of his magic, no, they were an example that, in its own way, worked _completely_.

It was hard when one worked with death and souls to reanimate a being not just with the actions of life, but with its own consciousness. Red had her own intelligence and Keith strongly suspected that the prime reason she still held that was because of their bond and not his act of magic at all. But Vampires, while lacking in some areas (and therefore a failure), were still capable beings that could act of their own free will. Not only that, but they could spread their affliction to others through the means of their bite and blood.

It was, for lack of a better word, extraordinary. It should be impossible.

Which is what made vampires even more of a curiosity for him. Where some necromancers would go out of their way to outright avoid the beings, Keith gladly followed and chased them.

He wanted answers and in a way, he supposes this is what the Garrison would provide for him as an exchange of _his_ services.

Let Keith study the vampire and in turn, they can use him.

There was just one problem though. One he should have seen coming.

The vampire was docile because while Keith was watching _him_ , _Shiro_ watched back.

* * *

Keith finds the first of the _real_ notes in a Vonnegut book.

That’s his first sign something is off. His second is that the note is placed on the inside of the cover. His third is that Shiro’s familiar words are written on a bright shock of yellow paper.

Gone are the plain crisp journal papers. He’s taken a page out of Keith’s book with sticky notes and oddly, the witch is flattered.

Heh.

_This_ _would_ _be your reading choices, wouldn’t it?_

The words are mocking, an imitating tease of his own, but it pulls a laugh out of him anyway.

So the vampire wants to play tag then huh? Fair be it. He’s had little fun since he got here.

He thumbs the curled corner of the note, reaching out with his own magic to get a read of Shiro’s, only for there to be a distinct lack on the other end.

Interesting. The vampire wants to play this the mundane way.

Oh, he likes him even more.

Keith grabs a pen conveniently left on the shelf, a simple blue ballpoint, and writes back, below Shiro’s own words.

_But could you even keep up with us, bats?_

And below that, he writes another book title.

* * *

Shiro finds the witch’s next note in a small copy of Hamlet.

Following the necromancer's teasing note, sure enough, Shiro spots that now-familiar splash of color against pale pages. Orange this time, with a shock of purple ink across it. Absently, Shiro wonders if the witch owns any other kinds of paper or if they just prefer the brighter colors.

He also wonders what they’re favorite color is.

Picking up the book with a smile, Shiro tracks his eyes down the worn front. He’s never been a fan of Shakespeare, always huffing over the old language. It’s funny, considering everyone thinks he’d prefer the writings over most, but Shiro likes simpler words. Ones he already understands and doesn’t have to ponder over what the author was trying to say. He likes bluntness and appreciates the honesty of his textbooks and sappy love books.

The witch, however, seems to appreciate the man’s work. Or at least, he appreciates this one specifically. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have led him here of all places.

Vonnegut and now depressing Shakespeare novels? How gauche. It seems the edges of his little witch were finally filling out.

_Oh to be a vampire librarian with the day to waste,_ his witch wrote. _After notes what’s next? Love letters?_

And beneath that was another book title. Riordan, this time.

* * *

Shiro keeps following the notes the witch leaves and in turn, learns far more about the necromancer than he originally did.

Before, all Shiro knew was that they were a necromancer and had a great deal of knowledge on souls. Now though, he knew not only what kind of books they read, but little things too that the witch liked to slip in with their teases.

For instance, Shiro notes that the witch favored a red pen. Always sprawling it across their thin sticky notes, gel ink smeared and thick. They also seemed to like pink paper more than the other colors. That or Shiro supposes they could just be running low on other colors. But something told him that wasn’t the case.

The witch also liked to draw. More often than not Shiro found scraps of paper with doodles on them. Most were of him, usually making some kind of face or simply reading, but Shiro’s seen a handful of Black and Atlas both sprinkled in.

* * *

It takes a week to gather enough residue for Shiro to track the witch down completely.

When Shiro had been turned, his magical core had been strong. As the vampire blood and saliva twisted through his veins though, it had eaten away at his gift. His magic was far less what it had been, as Shiro was no longer what anyone would call a witch, but it still remained within him, just turned slightly and with a different focus.

While most of Shiro’s magic went to little things, like leaving a trace on his own objects lest he forget them, he still had enough to do basic charms and potions. Rituals, if he rested enough. A magical core didn’t need to be too powerful to do those things, just strong and with enough of a structure to build on.

The necromancer, like Shiro, left a trace of their magic behind on all their notes to him. It was microscopic and very well hidden, suggesting that the witch knew had to hide themselves from magical means but was choosing to provide a loophole regardless. Each note was spelled carefully and as every witch knew, spells left residue. Like pencil shavings, their magic would dust the air, the object, whatever it was, and leave behind a trace. Most didn’t worry about it, as it was harmless and just recycled into the ambient air around them, but some had to clear this residue if they wished to either remain untraceable or if it was needed to cleanse an area for another bit of more powerful magic.

The necromancer hadn’t left enough behind for him to find them easily, which is why it took him a week to gather some just to track their magic in general. The ritual he was doing wouldn’t lead Shiro to the witch but would draw their attention to him. They would know Shiro could recognize their magic and that he had something he wanted them to see.

That something was simply a book. Or rather a journal.

Trading notes in library books could only get them so far after all. First, they would have to find all these notes, hope no one else came into contact with them first, and then the notes themselves had to stay relatively short. A sticky note or scrap of paper could only hold so many letters after all and it would be unseemly to just leave a whole letter. Especially since they didn’t know enough about each other to write that much, because while Shiro is sure they both would have a lot to say on their more intellectual conversation on souls, he wanted something more than that. Less pressing.

Thus the journal.

There were two of them, both being charged to be linked to both Shiro’s and the other’s magic. It would be sort of like text messaging, in that Shiro could write to the witch and receive a response once they’ve read his words.

He _had_ thought to just simply leave the witch a note with his phone number on it but that action felt both too cowardly and not enough. Something about the books made their exchanges into a game, bringing more intrigue with it, and he wasn’t quite ready for it to stop.

Pidge and Matt would no doubt be appalled at his archaic choice of communicating. Magical journals weren’t exactly popular anymore, since phones and computers got the job done and more. But Shiro was sentimental and didn’t care much about what they thought.

It was with a little smile that he tucked the journal onto the shelf beside another romance book. The necromancer would no doubt sneer at the company Shiro chose for it but that just made him grin some more. Coating it in his and the witch’s combined magic, Shiro left with a bubbling sense of anticipation.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the witch to find it. Or much longer to respond.

The first pull the journal gives on his magic was less of a tug and more of a painful yank.

It reminds him of harsh tugs from his childhood, boyhood years full of running, and joyful yelling.

Behind his ribs forms an ache Shiro ignores.

It’s easy to flip the cover open, easy to find that hum of addicting magic. It’s harder to read the words on the page when he knows that this, whatever it is, is the start of something. Something profound and exciting and perhaps even a bit wrong.

But it’s even harder to care about that when he wants this so much.

He watches as dark red ink begins to curl itself across a previously blank page, font familiar and cool.

_If you wanted to know more about me, you could’ve asked for my number._

He bites a grin back, cheeks pinched as he hollows them out.

Easily, Shiro picks up his pen and writes back.

_But where’s the fun in that?_

The answering reply comes quick, letters slanting.

_Where indeed._ He can almost feel the smirk in the ink and it brings a matching one to his own face.

A moment later, more red ink appears.

_How did you make this anyway?_

Shiro grins, feeling for once like he’s won something with the other. The magic it took to make the journals, especially the ritual and runes carved necessary, is old magic. He tells his companion as such.

They don’t respond for a while and Shiro begins to worry. And then, before his anxiety can make him start thinking truly impossible things, the handwriting returns.

_Keith_ . Single syllable. Smooth red letters. _That’s my name by the way._

Keith. He rolls it over his tongue, pairs it with the cool magic brushing against his hand. Keith.

_Well_ , he writes back. _You already know my name of course. But I’m Shiro._ A grin. Easy _. Nice to meet you officially, Keith._

* * *

Keith flips through the pages of his new journal, a gift from Shiro.

He hasn’t been given anything in a long time. He doesn’t tell the vampire this. His hands shake too much as it is.

There’s a mix of his now-familiar red ink and the blocky script of Shiro’s own in a deep, thin black. Words traded back and forth like the quips he used to trade with James Griffin back when the both of them were scrawnier and meaner.

Hidden in the margins are drawings he knows Shiro gets anyway. Everything in the book transfers over, even spilled water or fallen inkblots. He smears the edge of one now and watches as Atlas’s wing turns into something misty, like a ghost instead of the living bird he knows her to be.

He wonders, briefly, what her soul would feel like, as fiery orange as it is.

Shiro’s black flowers curl around corners, messy and all the same shape. Some are shaded in, some are crossed hatched, but all of them are slightly slanted and squished. Like Shiro made them little rushed secrets. So unlike him.

His eyes, like they so often do these days, traitorously peek down to the words and sentences stretched across the book’s landscape. A compulsion that’s getting harder and harder to ignore. Keith can’t get enough of reading them, of seeing them. Proof that someone sees him. Likes him.

_Did you eat breakfast today?_ Shiro had written. When he doesn’t remember. Knowing the man it could be any day, as he has a fondness for mothering Keith. Always reminding him to drink some water or go fetch a snack from the canteen. Don’t forget to go outside today Keith! He scoffs but it doesn’t ring true and he knows it. The smile on his face would betray him even if the noise hadn’t.

He spots another. _Iverson keeps checking out werewolf books. I’m so tired of hearing him ramble about the moon, Keith . . ._

Another.

_I just ate the most disgusting muffin. Please come kill me._

Again.

_There’s a dog in the courtyard!!!_

He outright grins at that one, caressing Shiro’s script with his fingertips. He hadn’t told the man this, but the dog had in fact been Kosmo, Keith’s furry friend. Who was most definitely an oversized dog. Honestly, sometimes he thinks the boy is part wolf.

Then, like a shy hand, he reads his own words.

_Did you visit Allura today? She mentioned you._

_These poems you rec’d me are shitty and confusing._

_I’m so bored. Let’s pretend to get coffee._

And Shiro’s answering smiley face drawing with a short _yes_ beside it.

A smile peeks at his lips, far too soft, and he bites it away (unsuccessfully). 

Sometimes, Keith pretends they’re actual friends. Those who met in real, red-blooded life and not the dusty confines of old library books.

He thinks of Shiro, tall and broad beside him, getting coffee in the waking month of autumn. Thinks of how it would feel to have another’s warmth brushing against his own, body and magic. He thinks Shiro would be honey warm like baking muffins are. The opposite of his own frigid cold. He wonders what the man would order, probably something sickeningly sweet. Not that Keith’s order would be any different. And the man would endure Keith’s teasing, giving it back just as hard, as he would slip his hand into Keith’s own. Like it was nothing.

These are dangerous thoughts. Old ones he’s forced himself to ignore. To give up. Emotions cloud judgment, muddies one's connection to their magical core. Where some witches can get away with that, Keith knows his own magic is too volatile for it. Rage bleeds into quick deaths and happiness tends to make him linger for too long, look at a soul just a bit too hard.

It never ends well.

But it’s hard. Hard to ignore the way Shiro’s morning greetings make him want to stay in bed longer, to relish in the luxury of having someone _care_. He wants to wrap his words around himself, cover his arms and legs with playful doodles and tuck easy small talk against his chest.

This friendship is precious, he knows. It deserves to be cherished.

But Keith’s soul has always been hungry and now it feels starved for more. Restless in a way he’s unfamiliar with.

It’s a dangerous feeling. But it’s even more alluring.

He closes the journal gently, caressing a paper cut scarred hand over its face. Shiro’s magic reaches out back to him like an eager, curious child greeting their friend, and his own lunges to return the gesture. They coil around each other like two snakes in a patch of dark leaves.

Keith is tired of playing this game. He wants something _real_.

He was never good at following the rules anyway. Especially his own. Everything with Shiro is easy. Perhaps this can be too.

* * *

Shiro meets Keith on a Monday morning.

He doesn’t notice the boy at first, lost in the pleasant caramel swirls of his macchiato. The library is closed and it’s early enough in the day that the halls are silent and near empty. Just the way he likes his days off.

He’s walking, where he knows not. Just lets Black and his feet carry him on. His footsteps echo back to him, lonely and soft, and he hums into the rim of his ceramic cup, content.

In his other hand, he holds a book, spine cracked, and splayed out with a careful tri of his fingers. His thumb tucks into the bend sharply as he reads the sweet words of old lovers from a time many like to forget.

So lost he is, that he doesn’t even notice another joining his company. Not even when Atlas croaks out a cheerful croon.

“We seriously need to update your reading material.”

His response is carved out of him before the words even register in his brain. Reflex, he supposes later.

“At least I always know what I’m looking for.”

A chuckle, whip-like and low. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Shiro turns, angling his shoulder to face the low voice mirroring his and has to immediately bite down on his tongue because the man before him is fucking gorgeous.

Dark hair, barely held into a small ponytail, curls around a heart shaped face. Just as curly bangs skim over the deepest blue Shiro’s ever seen in a pair of eyes. He’s small, shorter and thinner than Shiro by several margins, with a tiny waist to match. A black choker keeps drawing Shiro’s eyes to his long, pale neck. His carotid beats rhythmically against corded leather. At the hollow of his throat, lays a single purple teardrop gem that seems to glow faintly at odd intervals.

A smirk curves the man’s pretty mouth. “Figure it out yet?”

Confusion clouds Shiro for just a moment before everything catches up to him and he’s gaping, once again before he can stop it.

“ _Keith_?!” 

An even deeper chuckle fills the hall and suddenly Shiro registers that he no longer feels so cold and alone. Keith’s mere presence has warmed the edges of his peripheral, filling in shades he hadn’t even known were missing. Even the cool press of his magic was like a balm on his senses.

Keith waves a hand, shifting his long, dark cardigan back like a stage curtain, and a rush of magic brushes against him, deep inside. It feels almost like an answering heart beat within his chest, wholly not his own but a pair nonetheless.

He’s never heard of anything like it.

He drinks in Keith’s being like a parched man would water. Dark clothes cling to his frame, fingerless gloves holding in the magic just barely contained within his hands. A line of earrings runs down his ears, winged eyeliner somehow making the witch even more sharp and deadly to look at. Keith is sin, always has been, but looking at him now, Shiro is reminded that this is the witch that courts with Death.

And gods, does Shiro want to watch him play.

He wants to feel Keith’s magic within him again, diving into his chest and sinking its teeth feral in, trying so desperately to carve out the very few spaces of his soul left. Wants to grab ahold of those thin, delicate looking hands and watch as they tear and pull and remake.

More than anything else though he wants to press his lips against Keith’s own, grins sticky and thin, as the necromancer utters those final chants, a dead language only he knows but everyone can feel.

Keith owns Shiro’s soul. Holds it within his hands like a precious orb. Shiro wants to watch him shatter the damn thing and make it anew.

He wants to feel whole again. Reborn. Looking at his little witch, feeling him, he knows Keith is capable and wanting of the same.

“I’ve waited years for you, Shiro .,” Keith tells him casually. His eyes are warm. A dripping night skyline.

It’s been barely a month since Shiro found that first sticky note. How his life has changed. How he longs for something _more_ now.

He closes the book in his hand. He feels himself sliding it into the front pocket of his coat. Keith’s laughing smile softens.

“I’ve waited decades for you,” He counters. Shiro feels that small pulse of his magic within him. Feels it surge hotly. Keith’s magic reaches out and smooths it’s rough edges, its clumsy bumps. A breath escapes him.

A hand reaches out, palm up. Shiro catches a hint of nail polish. He follows it’s curves up to Keith’s face.

“Then what are we waiting for still?” The necromancer asks him.

Shiro thinks of his library, of the magical contract Sanda had forced him into. Had warped without his consent. He thinks of Black at his feet, hears the heady purr she brushes his leg with. He thinks of Atlas who is flying over Keith’s head with a slow glide, white feathers soft and pristine. He thinks of Matt and Pidge and his empty bed in his empty apartment.

Keith’s serious face carves out of the wall, from between the cracks, and he exhales.

He thinks of Keith’s endless array of brightly colored sticky notes in magical theory textbooks. Thinks of the torn scraps of paper tucked away in the spines of shitty romance books. He thinks of worn, _hotcold_ journals, and the endless ink doodles shoved along with curly conversations. Thinks of the coffee stains and warm winter scarves they pretended to wear and the charcoal hands Keith would press against blank pages after hours of drawing.

He thinks of souls and magic and life. He thinks of death.

Shiro reaches out and grabs Keith’s hand.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this so very differently than I usually go about things. I'm still not sure how I feel about it but it was so fun!
> 
> I've always wanted to write a witch au and this prompt managed to provided me the opportunity. Dear prompter, I hope you enjoyed this!!


End file.
